A Twist In The Tail
by Alcestis
Summary: "Tell me, Molly, do you make it a habit to inspect the genitals of every animal you encounter?" A story about cats, fur coats, and the one pathologist who has always counted.
1. She was a cat person, until one ate her

**A Twist in the Tail**

(Non)Standard Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BBC and Hartswood Films.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: She was a cat person…until one ate her<strong>

It had been the most harrowing of days, watching Sherlock jump, timing the descent of the placebo corpse to make sure it hit the pavement at just the right moment, then doing the autopsy and pushing the paperwork through. So much could have gone wrong if they had been just a couple of seconds off…

And John…She had seen him in the hallway with his head in his hands, tears dripping from between his fingers. John was a soldier, a war hero…in the time she had known him, she'd always marvelled at his quiet strength. Somehow, the stoic army doctor had managed to simultaneously act as partner-in-crime(solving), conscience, and all-round wrangler to his temperamental genius of a flatmate.

She had stood there, frozen, unable to do anything as one of the strongest and most level-headed men she knew began to sob; harsh, wrecking sounds which clawed at her already frayed composure. Molly had squeezed her eyes shut against her own tears, knowing that there was nothing she could do or say that wouldn't leave her feeling like a liar and a hypocrite. Stepping back, she had forced herself to walk away from the sounds of the man whose world had just fallen apart.

It was already dark as she made her way out of the Tube station near her flat. There was a definite chill in the air, prompting Molly to draw her coat more tightly around her body. Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed movement, but when she turned, there was nothing there. The events of the day must have shaken her more than she had realised, and the bone-deep exhaustion was taking its toll. She picked up her pace, almost jogging the short distance to the entrance of her building. As she fumbled with her keys to the security gate, a slight noise behind her made her jump and whirl around, only to see a retreating shadow and the end of a black tail disappearing round the corner.

Molly took several deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heart. _Probably just a stray dog or cat_. From her brief glimpse of the tail, however, whatever it was had to be fairly large. She hoped that Toby never found himself in a confrontation with the stray. While her pet believed himself the master of all he surveyed (including her), he was but a pampered housecat and no match for an animal with instincts honed from living on the streets.

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><p>All thoughts of stray animals were driven out of Molly's mind over the next few days, with the inquest into the death of the "Fake Genius" and the media frenzy surrounding his apparent suicide. As the attending pathologist whose signature had been on the death certificate of one William Sherlock Scott Holmes, she had been called in to give expert witness testimony. They had even probed into her relationship with the deceased; it being well-known that the consulting detective refused to work with any other pathologist (and conversely, the fact that the other pathologists refused to come anywhere within fifty yards of Sherlock Holmes).<p>

During this time, Molly had discovered a hitherto undiscovered talent for barefaced fibbing, although the tears had not been entirely put on, since she had no idea if she would ever see Sherlock again…

In those rare moments of honesty when he'd come to her for help, he had admitted to the fear that taking down Moriarty's criminal network would be a mission he might not return from. That day, beneath Sherlock's mantle of self-confidence and the grim determination to protect his friends, Molly had seen the terrified little boy who was trying to put on a brave face for the world.

And she had loved him all the more for it.

She had almost begged him not to go through with it; to walk away and refuse to play Moriarty's game, but before she could give voice to her plea, the shutters had come down again and he had switched into machine mode, telling her what he needed her to do. Moriarty had to be stopped, and Sherlock would play the game to the bitter end so that others could be safe. To Molly, he wasn't an angel…but he was definitely a hero, making the world a better place, one criminal at a time.

Most of Bart's had been aware of Molly's feelings towards the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, and she constantly found herself on the receiving end of looks which ranged from pity, to disbelieving—if somewhat disgusted—admiration. According to the snatches of conversation she had overheard, it apparently took a special type of morbidly perverse professionalism to perform an autopsy on someone you were in love with.

Attending Sherlock's funeral had been tough; made all more difficult by having to see the very real grief written across the faces of the friends he had given up everything for. Being one of the only two people present who knew that Sherlock Holmes did not lie beneath the black marble headstone was of little comfort. Mycroft had solemnly inclined his head at her in acknowledgement of their shared secret before departing immediately after the service. John had lingered by the grave, but eventually even he left as well. Once she was sure that everyone had gone, she had doubled back and stood, looking down at the simple gold engraving. Molly wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to give in to her greatest fear: That the grave might soon hold the lifeless body of the man whose name matched the carving on the polished stone.

The day was overcast with the promise of rain, but as she turned to take her leave, a slight movement under a copse—why anyone would refer to such a grouping with a word sounding so similar to that used for a dead body mystified her—of trees on a small knoll caught her eye. She squinted, just in time to see a flash of black disappearing over the crest of the hill. Seconds later, a flock of birds noisily took flight from some unseen point on the other side, swiftly winging over her head and out of sight.

_Wouldn't it be ironic if that had been a murder of crows? Stop it with the gallows humour! What was it that John always kept saying to Sherlock? Oh yeah…it's a bit not good. _

The parking lot and chapel had been empty besides the minister and the small group mourning Sherlock, so she knew that there were no other visitors about. She shook her head and told herself not to be paranoid, seeing shadows where there were none.

It was probably just the groundskeeper's dog.

It would not occur to Molly until much later, that she had not heard any barking the whole time.

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><p>Pubs were generally nice places to be on weekends, but after the emotionally-fraught day she'd had, Molly found herself staring morosely into her barely-touched pint. She would be better off, she decided, going home and having a good long soak in the tub. Hopefully, the bath would ease some of the tightly-coiled tension in her body (not to mention quell the beginnings of a truly mind-blowing migraine) which she attributed entirely to Sherlock-bloody-Holmes. She had not seen him since the day of the Fall and had no idea where he was or if he was okay.<p>

Not that she had expected him to show up at his own funeral—that would have been disturbing, to say the least—but she worried about him. _Constantly_.

Exiting the pub, she wound her scarf securely around her neck and walked briskly towards the Tube station, taking a short-cut through Russell Square Park. The park was quiet at night, and a gust of cold wind raised the goose bumps on her arms. A few of the lights along the walkway were not working, but she did not think much of it…until a man jumped out of the deep shadows left by a faulty light and clamped a hand around her arm.

Greasy hair, sweating profusely, badly cracked lips and watery, bloodshot eyes…_Junkie looking for his next fix. _He waved a switchblade in her face, "Hand over your bag, Love, and I'll let you be on your way."

Molly gulped, rooted to the ground as the man snatched the bag off her shoulder with the same hand holding the knife, almost nicking her in the process. He tightened his grip, hard enough to leave bruises, "You're not a bad looking bird, I think I'll have a kiss…" he said, eyeing her lecherously. In that moment, she realised that he would not be simply letting her go, nor would he stop at just a kiss.

_I broke up with the Consulting Criminal; I spend my days cutting into dead bodies with a scalpel twice as sharp as that knife; I have the British Government on speed-dial…only to be raped and done in by some low-life junkie? Molly Hooper, your father raised you better than that! _

Jolting into action, she stomped on her attacker's foot with all her might, aiming for the metatarsal bones. Those were relatively fragile and easily fractured. The man howled in pain and released her, causing her to stumble back.

Just as she was about to make a run for it, something large, black and furry lunged out of the darkness, knocking her would-be rapist to the ground. It wheeled around, lips pulled back to reveal wickedly sharp white canines.

"WHAT THE FU—?!" The man tried to defend himself with the switchblade, slashing blindly at the animal as it snapped its jaws at him. Her unlikely saviour twisted with sinuous grace, raking its claws down the length of the junkie's arm, leaving a truly impressive set of deep, bloody scratches. With a low, menacing growl, the big, black panther crouched to pounce.

Gibbering in terror, the man dropped the knife, scrabbled backwards and somehow managed to get to his feet, taking off at a stumbling run. The broken foot gave way, causing him to trip and fall face-first, but the fear of being mauled by a jungle cat was motivating enough for him to stagger back up and keep going.

Her heart was racing as the beast turned to face her. She wondered inanely whether it had escaped from the zoo or whether it was someone's exotic (and completely illegal) pet. _My gravestone is going to say: Here lies Molly Hooper. She was a cat person…until one ate her._

And then, it did something entirely unexpected…it sat back on its haunches, drew its brows together in a remarkably human-like expression of annoyance, and gave her a most disapproving look.

Molly blinked; she had to be imagining things. It was a dangerous mistake to humanise wild animals, superimposing human sensibilities and emotions on them. However, she couldn't help but drink in the sight of the majestic creature now that it did not seem interested in eating her. Measuring at least two metres long from nose to tail, glossy raven fur covered the sleekly muscled body.

She knew she should back away slowly and make her way to someplace with more human traffic (safety in numbers and all that); take a cab home from there. There was, unfortunately, but one problem with that plan…her wallet, credit cards, mobile phone and house keys were all in the bag currently lying on the ground next to a lazily twitching tail.

As though realising her dilemma, the panther rose to its feet, letting out a hiss as it did so. It sounded…pained. _Is it injured? _The doctor in her eyed it with concern, but in the dark, it was difficult to tell what was wrong.

Again, the big cat gave her a look that—on a human—spelled distinct impatience. It huffed (_in exasperation?_), lowered its head and butted her bag towards her…before backing up slightly and deliberately turning away as if trying to project an air of aloof indifference. Gathering all her courage, Molly took a few cautious steps forward. Slowly bending down to retrieve her oversized tote, she could now see that "it" was undisputedly male.

"Not fixed, then..." she muttered aloud.

The long, elegant black tail went abruptly stiff, as the panther made a peculiar half-choking, half-coughing sound. Quick as a flash, the animal whipped its body around to face her again with an affronted snarl, immediately drawing her attention back to the end with the razor-sharp fangs.

Their gazes collided at point-blank range.

She suddenly felt like time had stopped; as though the rest of world had ceased to breathe (because _she_ had certainly forgotten how to), when she found herself staring into eyes that beautiful, indescribable shade of not-quite-aquamarine brushed with gold…that elusive, beloved colour she'd only seen on one other living being.

_Completely identical, right down to the sectoral heterochromia in the right iris, _Molly-the-Specialist-Registrar dutifully noted with clinical precision somewhere at the back of her mind.

Shock held her suspended, as all her scientific and medical training raged against the sheer improbability of the notion unfolding in her mind. Yet, it was hard to discount the evidence that was, quite literally, staring right back at her. _Unless I've dreamt all of this? Am I still in the pub, slumped over the bar and drooling into my hair?_

A burst of loud laughter from a group of people coming up the path jump-started things back into motion. "Wait—!" Before she could get more than a word out, the cat had turned and bounded back the same way it had come.

"Oh…Bloody hell!" Determined not to be found standing in the middle of the park gaping like an idiot, Molly shoved her tote over her shoulder, stuffed her shaking hands into her coat pockets and hurriedly resumed her interrupted journey to the Tube station. She needed to get home, have her hot bath, and calm down (in that order)…

…But not before making a small detour to the pet store for some supplies.

She had a feeling that she was about to have company very soon.

She wondered if her sanity would survive the visit.

_**To be continued...**_

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><p>Notes:<p>

1) This story is for MizJoely and all the other lovely people out there on Tumblr who sail on the Sherlolly ship. You continually astound me with your humour, creativity and dedication.

2) I have honestly no idea where this came from or when I found the time to bang this one out! (I can just imagine the incredulous looks on the faces of the people who are waiting for me to get my butt in gear and finish my other fics...)

Sherlock is not the fandom I usually write for, so please excuse any out-of-character behaviour. This story is also unbeta-ed and un-brit-picked. Any and all mistakes are mine. :D


	2. Reports Of My Death

**Chapter 2: Reports Of My Death Were Greatly Exaggerated**

She had just finished drying her hair when a scraping noise from the direction of her kitchen window alerted her to the fact that someone was attempting a spot of breaking and entering. Silently, she grabbed the heavy enamelled vase from her dresser, just in case it wasn't the person she was expecting. Without turning on the kitchen lights, she stood beside the window and waited.

She might still bash him over the head either way, for making her sick with worry, and (if her conclusions were correct) nearly giving her a coronary earlier.

The latch finally gave, and window swung open to admit a familiar lanky figure clad in scruffy jeans, hooded sweatshirt and running shoes, all of indeterminate age and colour. The uncharacteristic clothing gave her pause, but then again, he couldn't very well run around in his all-too-recognisable Belstaff and tailored suits now, could he? Seeing as he was officially supposed to be six feet under and all. Molly scowled, set down the vase on the kitchen counter with a loud thump that startled her visitor, and reached over to flip on the lights.

The clothes were actually worse than she had first thought. He looked like one of his homeless network, complete with an explosion of wild, unkempt curls and several days' worth of stubble.

"Ah, Molly—" he began, his eyes flicking to the vase and back to her. If he had anything to say about finding her lying in wait for him with a potentially concussion-inducing weapon, he (in a rare show of discretion) kept it to himself.

She folded her arms over her chest, spearing him with a castigating glare, "It's been a week, Sherlock! You could have texted, sent an email, or even a bloody postcard! Anything to let me know that you were safe!" It was only a split-second later that she realised that she had made the entire speech without even a hint of a stammer. From the slight widening of his eyes, he'd noticed it as well.

"I had to be sure you were not being followed by Moriarty's men, nor could I risk revealing the fact that the reports of my death were…greatly exaggerated," he drawled, lips twisting into an ironic smirk. "Mycroft has his people working on it, but at this point we have to assume that all your correspondence is being monitored."

_I had to be sure you were not being followed by Moriarty's men…_Her mind latched onto his words, and suddenly, she recalled the feeling of being followed home on the day of the Fall; seeing the flash of black disappearing round a corner and dismissing it as a stray. And then again, in the cemetery… The git had, in fact, turned up at his own funeral.

"It was you! _You've_ been following me." It wasn't phrased as a question.

"I…had to be sure," Sherlock repeated, his agitation clear from the tension in his shoulders and in the way he reached up to rake a hand through his hair.

He winced as he did so, and it was the final clue she needed for the multitude of suspicions pinwheeling around in her mind to cement themselves into certainty. It all added up, really…The slight feline slant of his eyes; the standoffish attitude; the way he always moved with such light-footed, effortless grace. Now that she thought about it, he more than resembled Toby in the way he veered between supreme laziness and excited frenzy…with absolutely no middle ground.

Molly breathed in deeply to calm her jangling nerves, and fixed him with a stare which dared him to look away. "And when exactly…" she closed the distance between them, deliberately stepping into his personal space, "…Were you going to mention the fact that you transform into a two hundred and fifty pound black panther?" Strange, how easily she accepted it. Then again, maybe it wasn't so strange after all…since it coincidentally involved a certain curly-haired _someone_ who went around telling people that _when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

For the first time in their four years of acquaintance, she witnessed Sherlock 'I'll-outlive-God-trying-to-have-the-last-word' Holmes spluttering and struggling to come up with a response. The consulting detective broke eye-contact first and tried to brush past her, "I have no idea what you are talking about. Me, transforming into a jungle cat? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? I expected better from you, Molly!"

Before he could do so, she'd reached into the bag sitting on the kitchen table, and dangled the catnip scented toy mouse right in front of his face. Sherlock literally froze on his tracks; his nose flaring as he stared at the object, seemingly transfixed by it. She watched his pupils dilate as he inhaled and a moment later, a low, soft rumble vibrated in the air around them.

_Is he…purring?_ Molly thought in amazement. She was relatively sure that the average human male lacked the vocal apparatus necessary to produce sound at that frequency. The deep baritone of his normal speaking voice was compelling, but_ this_ was a full register lower. It was seductive, soothing and unfairly sexy all at once…and it was doing funny things to her nervous system. She fought down the urge to pet him, and instead reached round to poke him lightly just below his right shoulder-blade with her free hand.

He flinched; the sound abruptly cutting off when she made contact with the injury she had suspected he was hiding under the ratty t-shirt and hoodie.

Trying not to appear triumphant at her victory, she put the catnip back into the bag from the pet store—he followed her movements closely and continued to eye the bag—and turned to the overhead cabinet to pull out her first aid kit. "Let me guess, wound caused by a switchblade," she announced as she walked past him into the living room with the kit and pointed to the couch, "Stop being a stubborn arse and sit down so that I can have a look."

Sherlock looked conflicted for a moment, before closing his eyes and letting out a fatalistic sigh. With surprisingly little fuss, he stripped off the hoodie and shirt, presenting his back to her…Possibly because the injury was in a place he could not reach himself, and he could not exactly waltz into a clinic or hospital to get it treated. Thankfully, the cut was not serious enough to require stitches. He barely reacted as she cleaned the wound thoroughly with antiseptic even though it must have stung.

Molly was fixing the last strip of surgical tape to hold the simple dressing in place when he turned his head to look at her over his bare shoulder, "Jaguar."

"W-What?" Damn, the stuttering had made its appearance again. Being so close to him while he was partially clothed flustered her more than she liked to admit.

"I turn into a black jaguar," Sherlock elaborated after a moment, "Technically, _panther_ is a broad term referring to a genus within the Felidae family which includes tigers, lions, jaguars and leopards. Black panthers are typically a melanistic colour variant of—"

"Sherlock," she interrupted him softly, cutting short his rambling monologue which sounded like something out of a Biology textbook. She knew for a fact that he had an eidetic memory (he liked to call it his _mind palace. _Being the drama queen that he was, he would, of course, choose an over-the-top mental construct to house all that knowledge…and she supposed that _Hogwarts Library_ didn't have quite the same ring to it)_, _therefore it would not be surprising if he _was_ quoting a paragraph word-for-word out of _Genetics 101_ or some scientific journal. Most people tended to fall back on things they were familiar with when they were nervous or uncomfortable, and blurting out scientific facts—as well as hurtful deductions—was Sherlock's way of hiding it.

Molly had always believed that she didn't count in any manner outside of her usefulness to him, but his actions spoke louder than any words ever would. He had been following her, ensuring her safety, although he would probably strenuously deny that _sentiment_ had anything to do with it. He'd had to reveal himself because she had carelessly chosen to walk alone through a park at night, when she really should have known better. Her chest felt tight when she realised how much he trusted her…and how much he was truly risking, by admitting such a huge, earth-shaking secret. "Thank you," her voice was steady this time even though her heart was close to bursting from all the emotions that this brilliant, infuriating man inspired, "For chasing off that guy today. I swear that your secret is safe with me. I shan't tell anyone."

The erstwhile consulting detective lifted an eyebrow as though surprised that she even needed to reassure him on that score. "Of course it is. I trust you, always have. Mycroft is going to be apoplectic that you've figured it out though. Bravo, Doctor Hooper. The catnip was a dirty trick, by the way." Sherlock paused in his rapid-fire speech, translucent blue-green eyes narrowing speculatively at her, "Which brings me to a matter of some concern. Tell me, Molly, do you make it a habit to inspect the genitals of every animal you encounter?"

Her face heated, until she was sure that she could cosplay as a sunburnt tomato. Trust Sherlock Holmes to broach the subject in the most tactless way possible. It was horribly embarrassing, now that she knew that detective and cat were one and the same. "It was an accident! I was bending down to pick up my bag and…and everything was at…at…eye-level! And I didn't know it was you at the time!" she said defensively, occupying herself with packing up the first aid kit so that she would not have to meet his gaze.

"Can't exactly wear pants with _that_ outfit," he remarked sardonically and flashed an insincere toothy grin that would probably strike fear into the hearts of the criminal class…along with most normal people.

Wildly casting around for something to change the subject, she got up off the couch, and walked to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea. "Did—…Does John know? That you can transform into a jaguar, I mean." She stumbled over the tenses, hating that he'd had been forced to make the choice that had ripped away the life he had built for himself. He was alone, save for her and Mycroft.

"I prefer the term _shift_," Sherlock answered impassively from the kitchen doorway, "And you are the only person outside of my family who knows." From the way he phrased his answer, it was obvious that he did not want to talk about his former flatmate. John represented Sherlock's old life and everything that he had lost.

"Right…Um…Okay…" Molly bit on her lip, a thousand things flying through her mind as she set the teacups, milk and sugar on a tray.

"Don't cannibalise yourself, Molly, your lips are thin enough as it is. You have questions. Ask." The tall, dark-haired pain-in-the-arse regarded her with a hint of amusement. True to form, his words were part insult, part imperious command, and all Holmesian bluntness.

She ignored the dig about her appearance with the ease of long practice. It was rare that Sherlock offered to explain anything, but as a fellow scientist, he had to know that her curiosity was eating her alive. The kettle whistled, and she prepared their tea, taking the time to gather her thoughts into something approaching coherence. Carrying the tray into the lounge, she handed him a cup (dash of milk, one sugar), fixed her own, and started firing away.

An hour later, their tea sat on the coffee table, cold and mostly untouched. Molly finally knew the nature of some of the complex and mysterious experiments Sherlock ran in the lab when he was not on a case, as well as why the lab's inventory of phlebotomy needles and syringes seemed to deplete more quickly than the hospital pharmacy's morning-after pill stores after every Bart's Staff Dinner and Dance. Not all the needle tracks on the insides of his arms were from his former drug habit. It was a minor miracle that he'd managed to hide what he had been doing from John, Mike Stamford and Molly.

She listened, frankly horrified at some of the tests he had detailed…Sherlock was barely qualified to draw water out of a well, much less draw _blood_ and _bone marrow_ samples from himself! And then there had been the skin grafts he'd been studying a couple of months ago, ostensibly for the growth rate of hair follicles…she had not thought much of it at the time, but now she felt ill; not because of the fact that it had been human skin, but because she was quite sure that he had sliced off a strip of his own—she didn't want to know from which part of his body—while trying to decode how that beautiful black pelt appeared when he shifted into cat form.

However, for all his considerable intellect and exhaustive research, he was still unable to explain exactly how or why he could transform at will. He suspected that it had something to do with the extra set of base pairs within his DNA, which he had not been able to adequately identify or map to any known gene in the human genome.

"They haven't finished mapping the human genome," she pointed out, tucking her feet under her as they sat together side by side on the couch, "And maybe it _can't _be explained by science. Some things just…_are_. You have an incredible talent, it's up to you to use it well."

Sherlock shot her a sceptical look, "You are a scientist and possess above average intelligence…surely you don't believe in that drivel! There must be a logical explanation for this!"

Molly shrugged, "I can't think of a scientifically feasible theory as to how the basic configuration of the human skeletal structure can rearrange itself into something…not human. You're right, I do think it's magic, like something out of a novel or a movie. Is that so bad?" She touched his arm, and was gratified that he made no move to pull away. "I just don't want you to keep searching for something that may not exist…or chase after answers that, when all is said and done, you might not be able to accept."

He was silent and unmoving for several heartbeats, so much so that she thought he had gone to his mind palace. However, when she tensed to get up to clear the tea things away, he stilled her by saying softly, "_'Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that madly seekest him!'_…Captain Ahab spent most of his life hunting the white whale, and in the end, his obsession destroyed him."

This quietly contemplative side of Sherlock was new to her. She was surprised that he retained knowledge of the literary classic instead of deleting it since it had little relevance to crime-solving. Fate was truly an evil bitch for sending this mercurial genius of a man her way, with his Adriatic Sea-coloured eyes and sculpted cheekbones; his Cupid 's bow lips and dark Byronic curls. He was her _Mr Spock_ and _Mr Darcy_, her _Lestat_ and _Dante_, all rolled into one. Despite his flaws, he was everything she had ever wished for…except that he would never regard her as anything more than a friend. The irony was not lost on her that she too, was chasing after something that was out of reach. _I should take my own damned advice and get over Sherlock Holmes!_

Mouth drying at the bitter realisation, she took a gulp of her cold tea, promptly wincing at the cloying taste. If friendship was all that she would ever have from him, then so be it…she would still offer him whatever support she could. That's what friends did, right?

Putting her cup aside, she looked at him earnestly, "Sherlock, everything that this ability has granted you…enhanced vision, agility, sense of smell, and one hell of a disguise; all these seem to be geared towards making you _better _at what you do. You can call me a fool and a romantic, but I believe that all things have a purpose, and that this…_gift_ of yours isn't a coincidence or a random genetic quirk. The—"

"—Universe is rarely so lazy," they finished together in perfect sync.

They stared at each other in a moment of shared understanding, before a slow smile spread across his face—a genuine one that reached all the way to his eyes—and he leaned forward. She held her breath, as he brushed his lips against her forehead.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said simply, the deep timbre of his voice wrapping around her senses like a warm blanket.

She had dreamed of this; dreamed of him looking at her with that rare, soft light in his beautiful eyes and treating her with such poignant gentleness. _It's just gratitude_, she sternly reminded herself, y_ou're just plain, old, dependable and trustworthy Molly Hooper to him._

Unfortunately, even while her mind knew all of this, her heart...seemed to have missed the inter-office memo.

"Don't thank me," she stood, gathering the tea tray and trying not to let him see how deeply the chaste kiss had affected her. _Pulse, elevated. Pupils…most likely dilated._ "Thank The Powers That Be for making you an apex predator instead of a hedgehog!"

Even with her back turned, she could almost hear him rolling his eyes, "Yes, Molly, or we would have had to hope that your assailant today had the courtesy to stand still while being pricked to death. _Slowly_." And just like that, Sherlock Holmes, arsehole-extraordinaire had apparently rebooted and was back online.

They were interrupted by a piteous meow from the far end of the room. Her overindulged pet, usually unafraid of guests (he liked to greet people by digging his claws into any limb within reach), had been hiding in her bedroom since Sherlock's arrival. Intrigued, she watched as the cat hesitantly crept towards the consulting detective with tail and body held low, eliciting an exasperated _"Oh for god's sake!"_ from the man.

Taking that as some sort of sign, Toby rolled over, belly up and paws in the air.

Sherlock sighed loudly for the second time that night, before reaching down to stroke Toby's flanks and allowing the large marmalade tabby to rub head, face and ears against his hand and forearm. Molly heard a low, velvety rumble emanating from one of the males in her lounge (she wasn't quite sure which), and hid a smile.

Sherlock did not even bother looking up, "Not. A. Word."

The next time she saw them after washing up and putting everything away, Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch with his eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin, deeply ensconced in his mind palace. Toby was curled up contentedly on the detective's stomach, sharing his warmth and blissfully purring up a storm. Quietly dimming the lights, she left the two of them alone to their budding bromance and went to bed.

It figured, that her contrary pet would take to the ornery genius.

And that, of the two males whom she felt an inordinate fondness for, one of them was a cat, while the other occasionally turned into one.

Which also figured.

* * *

><p>Both man and pet were not in evidence the next morning when she emerged from her bedroom. Making a quick circuit of her small flat, she discovered Toby in the kitchen feasting on canned tuna that Sherlock had apparently opened for him.<p>

The kitchen window was slightly ajar, indicating that Sherlock had left in the same manner which he had entered the previous night. She hoped that he had not aggravated his injury while doing so and undid her handiwork.

Her cat, now with his belly full and in a rare good mood, approached her and rubbed his body affectionately against her shins. Toby then cheerfully attempted to break his owner's neck by tripping her up whilst she tried to make her coffee. Molly glared down at the animal, which had thus far displayed clear anti-social tendencies towards all her guests, but had turned into a furry puddle of putty in the presence of a certain "dead" consulting detective.

"Traitor…I can't believe that the two of you actually get along. You never have, with anyone else." The ginger tom blinked at her innocently…before plonking himself on his rear and casually lifting a hind leg to lick himself. "Ugh, you bloody rude furball!" she growled with disgust, although it did occur to her to wonder if talking to her cat was the first sign of insanity.

It was also probably a sign of her deteriorating mental health, that she was unaccountably jealous of her (borderline) psychotic pet. The cat had spent the night literally sleeping on top of Sherlock Holmes and had managed to get closer to him than she ever would.

Molly took a long drink of her coffee, and realised that she had made it black with two sugars (she _never_ took her coffee black). Raising her eyes towards the ceiling, she sighed. _Damn it, I definitely need therapy…_

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

1) Rampant references to Star Trek, The Wrath of Khan, First Contact, and Into Darkness. Brownie points to all those who spotted the quote from Moby Dick. In The Wrath of Khan, Khan actually quotes from Moby Dick throughout the movie, and I paraphrased Picard's line in First Contact about Captain Ahab and the whale. Yes, my geek roots are clearly showing.

2) I could not resist having Molly say the bit about "making you _better_ at what you do". For all the fans of Khan in Star Trek Into Darkness, you'll know why... :D

3) In real life, Benedict Cumberbatch does the voice-overs and is a brand ambassador for Jaguar cars, hence in this story, I made Sherlock a black jaguar. BC's voice has also been described as sounding like a jaguar in a cello...Anyway, this is a really bizarre crossover between fic-verse and real life, I know.

4) For something that has never appeared onscreen in any of the Sherlock episodes, I totally love Toby! I don't own a cat, so forgive any mistakes in the way Toby behaves with Sherlock. My intent was for Toby to sense that Sherlock is a jaguar and acknowledge the detective as the dominant cat.


	3. Nudity,Or The Disappointing Lack Thereof

**Chapter 3: Nudity, Or The Disappointing Lack Thereof**

Three months went by before she saw him again. She woke up in the middle of the night needing to use the loo, and got a terrible shock when she realised that there was another body stretched out beside her on the bed. Fortunately for him, there had been just enough moonlight shining in through her bedroom window for her to identify Sherlock's alabaster-pale features, otherwise she would have done what any normal person in her situation would do: Smother him with her pillow. He had his eyes closed and lay still as a corpse…if not for the fact that he was in his typical _mind palace_ pose, she would have been tempted to check for a pulse. _How on earth did I manage to sleep through Sherlock Holmes getting in bed with me? _And on the heels of that thought came _HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, SHERLOCK HOLMES IS IN BED WITH ME! _and _Of course he had to see me just when I decided to wear my oldest flannel nightie… _

As she washed her hands after using the toilet, she debated whether she should just spend the rest of the night on the couch. The Molly Hooper of the past would have done just that so as not to disturb him, but she liked to think that their relationship had evolved since then, and that she'd grown more of a spine after helping him fake his death and being privy to his biggest secret. Molly 2.0 didn't give a fig if she disrupted his sacred communion with his mind palace…He was the one who had crawled into bed with her without prior notice!

Thus decided, she got back into bed, glared once more at the unmoving man beside her—although she did succumb to the urge to peek under the covers to check for nudity, or in this instance, the disappointing lack thereof—and promptly fell back asleep.

He was gone the next morning when she opened her eyes. She sat up slowly, stilling as she glanced at the space Sherlock had occupied. A small anatomically-correct heart pendant, cast in clear Murano glass with a burst of intense, arterial red at its centre, lay nestled in the indent of the pillow next to hers. There was no note...not that there was any doubt as to who had left it for her. As Molly lifted it to the light by the delicate silver chain, her breath caught at the finely-wrought, detailed workmanship and the sheer, unusual loveliness of the piece. She was sure it was custom made, and wondered how he had obtained it. Perhaps he'd helped some Venetian glassmaker get off a murder charge…

The gifts started appearing randomly after that. A Thai silk scarf hanging off her coat rack; a blue Turkish _Nazar_ bead bracelet adorning her salt shaker; a little white ceramic Japanese cat beckoning with its paw from her dresser…After the first few items, she realised this was his way of letting her know that he was alive and well. These objects—sometimes mundane, but often as enigmatic as the man himself—painted, without words, a vivid picture of his journeys across the globe. While she treasured every single one of these gifts, she refused to let herself hope that they meant anything beyond friendship.

And yet…there were times that the things he did spoke straight to her heart.

She had spent a truly horrific day at the morgue performing an autopsy on a young woman who had been killed when a truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and swerved off the road onto the pavement. The twin foetuses nestled in her womb would never know laughter or sadness, pain or joy…Life cut short, before it had a chance to truly _begin_. Weighed down with bleak thoughts and a heavy heart, she came home to find a slightly battered waxed paper package tied with twine sitting beside the bathroom sink.

The single, oval bar of soap inside was delicately stamped with an intricate crest bordered with what looked like Cyrillic script. The reverse, in contrast, bore a single inscription in English: _For being you. _Very carefully, she snapped a few photos of it with her phone from several different angles, resolving to do research on the crest later, before slowly undressing and getting into the shower.

The scent…almost undid her. It smelled like the first frost over a towering alpine forest; of twilight with a hint of blackberries and green apples on the breeze. Ethereal and delicate, yet somehow, it reminded her of _him_. _God, how she missed him._ She missed seeing him in the morgue, barging in as if he owned the place; she missed his brilliant deductions, his cutting, often macabre sense of humour and yes, even his stupidly high cheekbones.

She did not know how long she stood there under the warm shower spray, clutching the bar of soap, tears pouring from her eyes, mourning for missed opportunities and things that would never be. For herself, for Sherlock, for the poor babies she'd had to sew back into their mother's womb…for all the injustices that life brought with it.

It was cathartic, in the way all good cries are. Emerging from the bathroom feeling inexplicably better, Molly prepared some spicy instant noodles for dinner and powered up her laptop. Downloading the photos from her phone onto her computer, she set about trying to translate the words in the crest. An hour and a half later, she had the name of an exclusive Macedonian soap-maker. According to the website she found when she typed the name into the internet search engine, this particular soap-maker specialised in one-of-a-kind handmade soaps.

She wondered if Sherlock had known how much she would love the scent; if he knew that it would move her to tears. Had he chosen the scent at random from amongst a hundred others? Or had he told them exactly what he wanted? Her mind whirled with questions that she doubted that she would ever have the answers to.

At the centre of it all was the walking conundrum that was the world's only consulting detective. He was the self-styled high functioning sociopath who had thrown himself off a building to save his friends; who appeared to possess no social sensibilities whatsoever, often hurting people with a well-placed barbed remark or deduction…

…But who would then turn around in the next breath and do something so incredibly _sweet_ that made her soul literally _ache _with the need be close to him.

She knew that he never intentionally meant to hurt her feelings, nor was it his fault that he did not see her in a romantic light. Hope was a dangerous thing, for it was down that particular road that almost certain disaster lurked…because after all this time and all that they had been through, Molly Hooper wasn't sure if William Sherlock Scott Holmes was even capable of letting go of his cold logic and deductive reasoning long enough to fall in love.

* * *

><p>Five days later, she was roused from a deep sleep by someone shaking her by the shoulder and turning on her bedroom lights. She bolted upright, her hand instinctively going to her bedside lamp with the intent of using it as a weapon.<p>

"Doctor Hooper."

Molly froze. _That voice…_

"Mycroft?" She blinked rapidly as her vision adjusted to the light. _What is it with the Holmes men and their fondness for breaking and entering? _Mycroft Holmes was standing by her bedroom door, while his ever-present assistant, Anthea (or whatever her name was this week), was beside the bed, ostensibly having been the one to shake her awake. Her mortification at having the British Government (who was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, no less) see her in her nightwear was swiftly eclipsed by a stab of pure anxiety. There were only a handful of reasons why Mycroft would show up in her flat in the middle of the night, and all of them revolved around a certain consulting detective's well-being. "Something's happened to Sherlock, hasn't it? Is he…?"

Although Mycroft Holmes was reputed to be even more emotionally detached than his younger brother, she could read his worry in the pinched look around his eyes and the slight disarray of his hair. "We've just had an…incident. He's alive, but I am afraid we have need of your medical expertise." The tone in which he spoke was flat, but even then, Molly sensed the thread of exhaustion behind every word. Knowing how much Mycroft cared for his sibling, he must have exerted every ounce of his not inconsiderable governmental influence to get Sherlock to safety.

Out of the corner of her eye, she vaguely registered that Anthea had moved over to her wardrobe and was packing a bag with silent efficiency.

Wide awake now, Molly's hands fisted in the duvet, "If he's b-badly hurt, you'll be better off finding a surgeon or at least someone with experience treating live patients! I'm…I'm a Pathologist, not a MD," she pointed out shakily, the rush of relief at hearing that Sherlock wasn't dead leaving her feeling light-headed and a bit nauseous.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and graced her with a tight-lipped smile, "I'm sure your medical skills are more than adequate, as is your experience treating this particular patient." He turned on his heel and walked back out of her bedroom, "Get dressed, Doctor Hooper. There's a car waiting downstairs. Anthea will see to the rest."

* * *

><p>What she expected to be a short car ride turned out to be a trip to a deserted airstrip where she was then escorted onto a private Lear jet. She sat in awkward silence across from Mycroft, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching as the man who was supposedly the smarter of the Holmes brothers issued orders into his phone in what she thought might be Czech or Russian. When he was not talking, he was busy texting, and barely spared her a glance. Anthea had not come with them, presumably staying behind to manage things in the absence of her boss.<p>

Several hours later, they disembarked in yet another seemingly abandoned airfield just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. To her astonishment, Mycroft put a hand on her lower back and guided her to the front passenger seat of a black Mercedes with heavily tinted windows parked nearby. Molly was fairly sure her eyebrows touched her hairline when Mycroft himself got in on the driver's side.

"I'm guessing that we are not in the UK anymore," she finally said as they sped across a bridge spanning a scenic river.

"Well spotted, but I suppose it is to be expected, after having worked with my brother for so long." Mycroft began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel, then stopped as if he had suddenly realised that he'd been doing it. "We are heading to a country estate just outside Skopje, which is the capital of Macedonia…" The corners of the British Government's mouth twitched mirthlessly, as he spared her a brief, sidelong glance, "But of course, you already knew that, given the latest present from the Idiot."

Forcing herself to focus on more practical concerns instead of getting hung up on the evidence that Mycroft had her under surveillance, she pointed out that she was outside of Britain without a passport and that he had yet to tell her exactly what was wrong with the aforementioned Idiot.

"I took the liberty of arranging a diplomatic passport for you. No need to fret, Doctor Hooper, you are hardly an illegal immigrant. You shall find the necessary documentation along with the rest of your things at our destination." He paused, and for a moment, he looked every bit as worried as Molly felt. However, the brief seepage of emotion was gone almost as swiftly as it had appeared, his expression smoothing over into its usual cool haughtiness. "As for the other, I would prefer to wait until you have had an opportunity to assess his condition first-hand before we discuss this."

The evasiveness of his reply did nothing to diminish the leaden ball of uneasiness sitting in the pit of her belly. _There's got to be more to it than Mycroft is letting on_…the British Government had literally airlifted her out of London in the dead of night; all the way across Europe, to a small Balkan nation just to take care of Sherlock. Surely there were actual medical doctors who were eminently more qualified for this? _John Watson, for instance._

Wrapped up in those increasingly troubling thoughts, she almost missed the sensation of the Mercedes coming to a stop. A surprised glance out the window yielded a view of a large two-storey house and expansive gardens. As she got out of the car, she was swamped by another wave of apprehension. _Stop it, the British Government believes you to be up to __the task__, and Sherlock needs you right now!_ She clenched her hands to stop them from visibly trembling; determined not to give Mycroft any reason to doubt her, and quickly followed him through the open front door into a lovely white marble foyer.

She was led through a set of double doors into a large room, curiously empty…except that half of it had been converted into a holding cell. A trolley loaded with medical supplies stood in one corner.

There was enough morning sunlight coming in through the bay windows for her to instantly realise why Mycroft had been so reticent about his brother's condition.

"Dear god...Sherlock…" she whispered, crossing the room and dropping to her knees beside the padded bars.

On a mattress that had been placed on the floor, the consulting detective lay motionless on his side in jaguar form. His eyes were closed, but his breathing sounded shallow and laboured. Snowy white bandages were wrapped around his head, ribs and one leg, contrasting sharply with the darkness of his ebony pelt. He'd also been set up with an intravenous drip, the needle taped to an uninjured paw. The clear plastic tubing snaked through the bars to a bag of clear fluid suspended on a metal IV pole. Beside it, a state-of-the-art monitor displayed a myriad of readouts including heart rate and pulse.

Her heart twisted at how very vulnerable and helpless he looked like this.

Mycroft cleared his throat, "He's still sedated from the surgery…he was caught in a blast, the force of the explosion simultaneously threw him clear and put him on a collision course with a concrete retaining wall. The vet who operated on him—"

Her head jerked up in disbelief to stare at the civil servant in the three-piece suit, "Vet? You allowed _a_ _vet _to perform surgery on your brother?!"

"The most renowned veterinary surgeon in the country _actually_," Mycroft said testily, handing her Sherlock's chart before letting out a long exhalation and gazing down at his little brother. "Sherlock was in this form when he was found. I could hardly send for a team of medical specialists from the local hospital to treat what, for all intents and purposes, appears to be a wild animal. It would simply raise too many questions."

Molly nodded slowly, biting her lip, "Sorry. I...the thought of him getting badly hurt turns me into a bit of an overprotective mother hen." She had no right to fault Mycroft for anything, especially when she knew that it had probably been the only logical course of action available to him.

Her words were summarily waved away, "Unnecessary. Do not apologise for your concern for him."

She flipped through the doctor's—_vet's_—notes on the chart, "_Christ_...hairline parietal skull fracture, three cracked ribs, shrapnel in left foreleg, dislocated shoulder joint...Why hasn't he shifted back?"

"From what my brother has deigned to tell me over the years, the shift is not automatic. He has to consciously will himself back into human form," Mycroft produced a keycard and swiped it through the electronic reader, "Before you ask, the cage is a precaution for his own safety as well as yours. We don't know how it's going to be like when he wakes. The head trauma…" He trailed off, not needing to complete the sentence, knowing that she was well aware of all the terrifying possibilities with a concussion being the most benign of them. Instead, he held the door open for her, "You may sit with him now if you like. He will remain under for a while yet. I believe they gave him enough tranquilisers to knock out a horse."

Without hesitation, she went in and settled down next to Sherlock. In the light of day, she could see that his coat had a beautiful pattern of dark rosettes in a deeper shade of black than the base colour of his fur. Black on black, like the black suit and dress shirt she had seen him wearing on several occasions when he had come into the morgue.

"Molly."

She looked up, startled at the sound of her name coming from Sherlock's intimidating older brother. Mycroft Holmes had never addressed her by her first name before, always preferring to remain formal by using her professional designation.

"I am glad what he will have the one person he trusts above all others by his side when he wakes up."

* * *

><p>After changing Sherlock's dressings and examining the sutures for any signs of infection, Molly shut the cage door and sank back onto the small couch that she had dragged into the room.<p>

The latest issue of _Cosmopolitan_ lay open beside her; a bit of light reading to pass the time, although Sherlock would probably deride her choice of reading material and tell her that it was rotting her brain. _He'll just have to wake up and quit being furry to do that!_ she thought defiantly, making a mental note to thank Anthea for sending it over along with her laptop (which was now apparently equipped with military-grade capability to surf the internet from anywhere on earth), a selection of novels and a few pathology journals. The PA had arranged for Molly to have paid time off from work (heaven knew what reason they had given her boss for her sudden disappearance), and was apparently also looking after Toby. Molly wished Anthea best of luck with the grumpy, thoroughly-spoilt ball of ginger fur which considered itself superior to most other life-forms. Then again, the same could be said about the Holmes brothers, so maybe the woman already had plenty of practice…

Mycroft had returned to London the previous evening—"_Contrary to popular belief, Doctor Hooper, the British nation does not run itself!"_—leaving her alone in the big house, as they could not risk anyone else finding out about Sherlock. The kitchen and pantry were fully stocked with everything that she could need, and there were prepared meals in the freezer that she could just heat up in the oven if she didn't feel like cooking.

It had been two days since she had arrived, and one since the sedatives keeping him under should have worn off. Sherlock had yet to show signs of returning to consciousness, although his pupils were responsive to light when tested. He was also breathing more easily, which was a good sign. She supposed his unique biology was responsible for the accelerated rate of healing, but it was not his physical injuries that had both her and Mycroft worried…Molly could only pray that his thick skull (both literally and figuratively) had protected the one thing that defined him above all others from any lasting damage.

The quiet was broken by the chiming of her phone. Sliding her thumb over the screen to accept the incoming call, she was further mystified when the caller started speaking before she even had a chance to say hello.

"Doctor Hooper, I apologise in advance for what you are about to be subjected to. It seems that the cavalry has arrived." The British Government sounded somewhat…harried, which was a rather disconcerting departure from his usual perfectly modulated tones.

Anything that could ruffle Mycroft's feathers had to be bad..._Like nuclear winter or zombie apocalypse bad._ "Wha-…What are you talking about?" Molly tried to keep the confusion out of her voice, but failed miserably. She was also starting to suspect that the propensity for theatrics was apparently not confined to Holmes-the-younger. _Bloody hell, it runs in the family—_

A barely audible sigh filtered down the line, along with an almost-tangible sense of impending doom. "My parents. I had to tell them about Sherlock and they are currently standing at the front door."

"_WHAT?_" Molly nearly fell off her seat onto the floor at Mycroft's announcement.

And then, precisely on cue, the doorbell rang.

* * *

><p>Mr and Mrs Holmes, as it turned out, appeared to be blessedly ordinary. How had they managed to produce two geniuses with so many social and emotional neuroses? Molly was fairly certain that Mycroft had as many (if not more) sociopathic tendencies as Sherlock…he was just better at hiding it, whereas Sherlock did not even bother <em>trying <em>to relate to other people. She could almost hear his voice in her head saying _Normal? Normal is boring…_

"I'm so glad that my boy has you to look after him, Molly," Miranda Holmes declared whilst regarding her with eyes the same incredible oceanic blue-green as her younger son. She must have been a great beauty in her youth, with those striking eyes and fine bone structure.

Not wanting his mother to have the wrong impression, Molly forced a bright smile, "Sherlock and I…We're _not_…We're just friends." The words tasted odd on her tongue; not exactly bitter, not bland either. But there they were, out in the open. _Just friends. _It wasn't as bad as she had feared, although she did feel a small twinge somewhere behind her breastbone, just beneath the glass heart pendant she was wearing under her jumper. Maybe she was finally accepting the fact that a romantic relationship with Sherlock was not—and had never been—on the cards. _That's good, isn't it? Far healthier than continuing to carry a torch for that insufferable git! _Striving for levity, she added in what she hoped was a convincingly humorous tone, "And Mycroft didn't exactly give me the option to see what was behind Door Number Two!"

Mrs Holmes snorted delicately, as she absently ran her fingers through the jaguar's thick black fur, "Mikey has always been a bit…overbearing."

Molly really tried to hold it in, but a grin escaped nonetheless, "Mikey?"

"Keeps his pompousness in check, as does making him accompany his dear old mum to matinee performances of _Mama Mia_." Mrs Holmes said drily, although the twinkle in her eyes belied an unmistakable maternal fondness and a wicked sense of humour, "Lord knows that his ego is already bloated enough from swanning around Whitehall."

Miranda Holmes was indeed a force of nature—not everyone could just _order _the British Government to endure hours of ABBA, then hope to live to tell the tale—to be reckoned with, and shared many of the same qualities as her sons. Unlike her boys, however, the keen intelligence and steely resolve that Molly sensed was tempered by a very human warmth. The first thing that Sherlock's mother had done on the doorstep was to envelop Molly in a heartfelt hug.

The grey-haired woman looked down briefly at her son's comatose form, "I imagine that neither of those two ill-mannered oafs thought to thank you for all you've done. Their behaviour is dreadfully appalling; they were certainly not raised in a barn, I assure you!" She reached over to gently squeeze Molly's hand, a mysterious smile hovering over her stately features. "For what it's worth, my dear…thank you for being such a good friend to Sherlock."

Molly returned the gesture without hesitation, "It's fine, Mrs Holmes. Really. I'm just glad I can help."

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Mr Holmes with a tray piled high with enough tea, biscuits and sandwiches for three. He was a sweet man who reminded her of a kindly, if absent-minded, professor_. Now you know where the genetic coding for those amazing cheekbones came from…_Molly was a little envious of Sherlock and Mycroft for having such wonderful parents, as well as slightly miffed that the two brothers didn't seem to appreciate how lucky they truly were. Molly's own parents had long since passed on, but she still missed them terribly.

Siger and Miranda Holmes were remarkably easy to talk to, seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her, and were not put off in the least by the morbid nature of her profession. In turn, they told her stories of Sherlock and Mycroft that made her laugh so hard that she almost snorted tea out of her nose. Sherlock, she learnt, at almost fifteen months old, had still been unable—or unwilling—to crawl like most babies. His concerned parents and brother had tried everything to coax him into it, but he'd remained stubbornly immobile. Then one day, he had sat very still on the carpet for a long time with a look of intense concentration on his little face…before simply getting off his diaper-clad bum and walking across the room, thus bypassing the indignity of crawling altogether.

When all the tea had been drunk and all the food eaten, the elderly couple had gently but firmly shooed her out, encouraging her take some time for herself; maybe take a trip into Skopje to explore and relax (Molly had been watching over Sherlock almost constantly over the last few days, even sleeping on the couch at night). They promised to call her if Sherlock showed any signs of waking.

Before long, her phone pinged with an incoming text from Mycroft, informing her that a car would pick her up and take her into town. Unsurprised by the British Government's omniscience, she sent back her thanks and went up to her room to get changed. She did pause briefly to wonder what that implied about _her_, since the average British civilian would be having a nervous breakdown knowing that _Big Brother_—in the most literal sense at that too—was watching, whilst she barely batted an eyelid at the notion these days.

* * *

><p>Molly looked up at the sign hanging over an elegantly understated shop-front. The soap-maker was tucked away at the end of one of the small cobblestoned streets which branched out from the town centre. The location of the shop was a bit off the beaten track, but she would recognise the intricate scrolling crest anywhere.<p>

A bell over the door tinkled as she entered, and she was met with tasteful displays of soaps, bath salts, gels, and lotions in every hue imaginable. The old man seated behind the counter looked up from the newspaper he had been reading, and she blurted out a greeting in Macedonian (which she had hurriedly searched out on the internet), her tongue stumbling clumsily over the unfamiliar consonants.

"You speak Ingle-lish?" the man asked with a heavy accent, the age-worn creases on his face deepening in an encouraging smile.

"Oh yes, thank you! Sorry, I can't speak your language," she apologised, but the man shook his head and queried if there was anything he could assist her with in slow, but understandable English.

Pulling out her mobile phone, she showed the shopkeeper the photos she had taken of Sherlock's gift, "A friend gave me this soap…" Molly offered by way of explanation, "I just wanted to know more about it."

The man (who had introduced himself as Josif) studied the photos, frowning for a minute before his face lit up. He bid her to wait while he ducked into the back of the shop, swiftly emerging again with a thick binder that was full almost to bursting. "I remember this soap, the one with the special inscription on the back," he told her, flipping through the file. "Your young man, he asked me to create a very unique scent. Ah, here it is…" The shopkeeper tapped on the page full of handwritten notes in Cyrillic.

Molly blushed and asserted that Sherlock was not _'her young man'_.

Chuckling, the soap-maker continued, "Many customers, they come in, they describe what they like; rose, lavender, sandalwood. I let them smell the scents; they pick out what pleases them the most. Your _friend_…he walks into my shop and tells me exactly what ingredients he wants me to blend. He was strange, that one…"

_Graduate chemist with genetically superior sense of smell, of course he would, _Molly mused distractedly, trying (and failing) to reconcile the self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath she knew with the person who had apparently taken the trouble to order a custom-made soap for her. It boggled the mind.

"…But tell me, do you like the scent? What does it make you think of when you smell it?"

Abruptly realising that Josif had asked her a direct question, she mentally chastised herself for allowing her thoughts to wander, "I…I love it." Closing her eyes, she tried to recall those first fleeting impressions before the tears had overwhelmed her that night, struggling to put the memory into words, "It was like I was standing in a forest of giant firs just after sunset…ice crystals on the branches, and the wind…I thought there might be little bit of apples. Um…Green apples, not red. And blackberries?" She ended her lengthy, rambling description on a question. _Molly Hooper, a poet you most definitely are not._

Warmth crept over her cheeks once more, and she wondered if her over-active imagination had run away with her. It was entirely possible that she was completely off the mark and Sherlock had meant the soap to smell like…mothballs, or perhaps a delightful combination of formaldehyde and the hand sanitizer back in the morgue. Unfortunately, one never quite knew what to expect when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. The Bart's morgue was, after all, his _home away from home_.

She opened her eyes, only to find the old man peering at her over the rims of his spectacles and smiling in a way that made her wonder if she'd just made a complete fool of herself. Something seemed to amuse Josif immensely, but he didn't seem at all inclined to enlighten her. All he would say was that the only person who could provide the answers she was searching for, was the one who had gifted her with the soap. _Maybe I've just waxed poetic over something that is supposed to smell like industrial-strength hand sanitizer after all, and he's sparing me the embarrassment…_

A short while later, Molly stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine carrying an embossed paper bag containing the small selection of soaps and hand-creams which she had purchased as souvenirs for friends back in London.

She would look back and remember fondly, the way the old soap-maker had walked her to the door, holding it open for her with a gentlemanly flourish that had her stifling a giggle.

It was his parting words to her, however, that would stand out most in her mind for a long time afterwards.

"There is an old belief, here in Macedonia…If two people smell the same scent, and it takes them to the very same place; then they will always find a way back to each other."

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

1) I really meant for this to be a short story, but it appears that I'm pathologically incapable of writing anything below 10,000 words. Sorry. ;-)

2) Turkish Nazar beads are believed to help ward off the evil eye. Salt is also believed to ward off evil/bad luck (hence the old practice of tossing salt over one's shoulder). Weird little in-joke of having Sherlock put the bead bracelet around her salt shaker. And since Sherlock's other form is feline, _of course_ he would get her a cat figurine from Japan...

3) Scents and perfumes are immensely complex and subjective. This means that a given scent will evoke different responses and associations from different people. Therefore, it is extremely rare that two people will visualise precisely the same thing even though they may be smelling the same perfume/scent.

4) This chapter turned out to be more serious than I anticipated. Sorry Again...Still, hope you enjoyed it! Do let me know what you think, I love receiving feedback!


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